I Am the Messenger (19 page)

Ritchie throws down his bag and answers, “Hey, lads, how are we?” but he looks at the ground, and no one really gives a shit about how anyone is. It’s five minutes to four and most of the team is drinking beer. One gets thrown to me, but I keep it for later.

I stand around a bit as the crowd continues piling toward the soccer field and Ritchie comes over.

He studies me, up and down, and speaks.

“Christ, Ed—you look bloody desperate. All bloodied and messed up and shit.”

“Thanks.”

He looks closer. “What happened?”

“Ah, just some young fellas having a bit of harmless fun.”

He pats me on the back, hard enough to hurt. “That’ll teach you, won’t it?”

“For what?”

Ritchie winks at me and finishes his beer. “No idea.”

You have to love Ritchie when he’s like this. He doesn’t care much for how things happen or bother asking why. He can tell I don’t particularly feel like discussing the incident, so he makes a crack and we leave it behind us.

Ritchie’s a good mate.

I find it curious that no one’s even
suggested
that I should have called the police about what happened. You don’t do that sort of thing around here. People get mugged or beaten up all the time, and in most cases you either get back straightaway or take it.

In my case, I’m taking it.

Doing a few lazy stretches, I look over at the opposition. They’re bigger than us, and I set my eyes on the massive one Marv had been talking about a while back. He’s gigantic, and to be honest, I can’t tell if it’s a man or a woman. In fact, from a distance, he looks like Mimi from
The Drew Carey Show
.

Then.

Worst of all.

I look at his number.

It’s number 12, like me.

“That’s who you’re marking,” says a voice behind me. I know it’s Marv, and Ritchie comes over as well.

“Good luck, Ed,” he says, suppressing his amusement. It makes a burst of laughter shoot from my mouth.

“Bloody hell, I’ll get flattened by him. Literally.”

“You sure that’s a man?” Marv inquires.

I bend down and hold up my toes, stretching the backs of my legs. “I’ll ask when he’s on top of me.”

Strangely, though, I’m not overly concerned.

The crowd’s getting restless.

“Right, get in here,” says Merv.

That’s right, I said Merv, not Marv—I’ve named the fat guy with the mustache Merv because I have no confidence at all that his name is in fact Henry. I think his mates call him Merv, anyway, on account of the mustache.

Everyone gathers in nice and close, and here’s where we all get pumped up for the game. It’s a collection of nasty underarm sweat, beer breath, missing teeth, and three-day growth.

“Right,” says Merv, “when we get out there, what are we going to do?”

No one says anything.

“Well?”

“I don’t know,” someone finally says.

“We’re going to
smash
these pricks!” shouts Merv, and now there’s a rumble of agreement, except for Ritchie, who yawns. A few of the others shout as well now, but it’s hardly a wall of sound. They swear and snort and talk of everything short of disemboweling the Falcons.

These are grown men,
I think.
We never grow up
.

The ref blows his whistle. As always, it’s Reggie La Motta, who is very popular in town for being a complete drunk. The only reason he refs the game is that he gets two free bottles of spirits we all chip in for. One from each side.

“All right, let’s kill these blokes” is the general consensus, and the side runs on.

Quickly, I head back to the tree where I left the Doorman. He’s asleep and a small boy’s patting him.

“You want to look after my dog?” I ask.

“Sounds good,” he replies. “My name’s Jay.”

“He’s the Doorman,” and I run onto the field and join the lineup.

“Now listen up, fellas,” begins Reggie. His voice is slurred. The game hasn’t even begun and the ref’s already pissed. It’s quite funny, actually. “If there’s any of that same shit as last year, I’m walking away and you can ref yourselves.”

“You won’t get your two bottles then, Reg,” someone says.

“Bullshit I won’t.” Reggie sharpens. “Now, no rubbish, you hear?”

Everyone goes along with it.

“Thanks, Reggie.”

“Right, Reg.”

Everyone moves forward and we shake hands. I shake with my opposite number, who towers over me and puts me in the shade. I was right. He’s a man all right, but a dead ringer for Mimi from
Drew Carey
.

“Good luck,” I say.

“Give me a few minutes,” Mimi answers throatily. Some heavy eye makeup would really do the trick. “I’m going to tear you to pieces.”

Let the games begin.

The Falcons kick off, and soon enough I get my first run.

I get killed.

Then I have another run.

I get killed again, and I also receive the trash talk in my ear as big Mimi squashes my head into the ground. This is what the Sledge Game is all about. The crowd is constantly oohing and aahing, screaming obscenities, and cracking up—all between drinking beer and wine and eating pies and hot dogs from the same guy who shows up every year to sell them. He sets up shop on the sideline, even catering for the kids with soft drinks and lollies.

The Falcons go in to score a few times and spring to a good lead.

“What the hell’s going on?” someone asks as we stand next to the posts. It’s big Merv. As captain, he feels he should at least say something. “Jesus, there’s only one of us having a chop and that’s…Hey, what’s your name again?”

I’m startled because he’s pointing at me.

Taken aback, I answer. “Ed,” I say, “Kennedy.”

“Well, Ed here’s the only one running hard and tackling. Now come on!”

I keep running.

Mimi keeps monstering and abusing me, and I’m wondering if he’ll ever run out of breath. Surely someone that big in
this
heat can’t go much longer.

I’m on the ground when Reggie calls halftime and everyone goes off for a beer. Each player will then convince himself, with difficulty, to go back on.

During the interval, I lie down in the shade near the Doorman and the boy. That’s when Audrey turns up. She asks nothing about the state of me because she knows it’s just more messenger work. It’s becoming normal now, so I don’t go into it.

“You all right?” she asks.

I sigh happily and say, “Sure, I’m loving life.”

In the second half there’s a turnaround and we fight back. Ritchie scores in the corner and then another guy goes in under the posts. It’s even.

Marv’s playing well now, too, and it’s tight for a long time.

Mimi’s finally getting tired, and during an injury break Marv comes over and stirs me up. “Oi,” he digs into me, “you still haven’t hurt that big bloody sheila yet.” He’s all blond sticky hair and determined eyes.

I object. “Well, look at the size of him, Marv. He’s bigger than Mama Grape, for Christ’s sake!”

“Who’s Mama Grape?”

“You know—from that book.” I give in. “And they made a movie out of it. Don’t you remember? Johnny Depp?”

“Either way, Ed—get up there and give him some!”

So I do.

There’s a guy being assisted from the field, and I go over to Mimi.

We look at each other.

I say, “Run at me next time you get the ball.”

And I walk away, positively shitting myself.

Play resumes then, and Mimi does it.

He winds up and runs at me, and for some reason I know that I’m going to do it. He charges onto the ball, I line him up, go forward, and all I hear is the sound. There’s a big collision and everything shakes. As the crowd goes insane I realize I’m still standing—and Mimi’s lying in a crumpled heap on the ground.

Soon everyone’s around me, saying great work and such, but a sudden sickness falls to my stomach. I feel awful for what I’ve done and the big number 12 on Mimi’s back stares forlornly back at me, motionless.

“Is he alive?” someone asks.

“Who gives a shit?” comes the answer.

I vomit.

Slowly, I walk from the field as everyone argues about how to get rid of Mimi so they can resume play.

“Just get the stretcher,” I hear.

“We haven’t got any, and besides—look at the
size
of this guy. He’s too big, anyway. We’ll need a bloody crane.”

“Or a Bobcat.”

The suggestions are limitless. People like this couldn’t care less about digging into someone. You name it. Size, weight, stench. If you’ve got it, they’ll tell you, even if you’re stomped all over the ground.

The last voice I hear is big Merv’s. He says, “That’s the best don’t-argue I’ve seen in a long time.” He expressed a great deal of joy in that sentence, and the other players agree with him.

I keep walking. I still feel terrible. Guilty.

For me, the game’s over.

The game’s over, but something else begins.

I make it back to the tree, and the Doorman’s gone.

A familiar fear quickens in me.

I stand and turn frantically in a circle, trying to find my dog and that kid.

Past the field there’s a small creek, and I elect to start there. I run as fast as I can in this state, the game forgotten, and from the corner of my eye, I see a girl with yellow hair coming toward me.

“The Doorman,” I call to Audrey. “He’s gone,” and I realize how much I love that dog.

She joins me for a while, then moves off in a different direction.

At the creek, there’s nothing.

I return to the expansive grass of the field. The game’s moving along and I can still hear the crowd somewhere in the miles of the back of my mind.

“Anything?” Audrey asks. She’d been further down the creek.

“No.”

We stop.

Calmness.

That’s the best way, and now, as I turn back to the tree where the Doorman sat originally, I see him and the kid going back there. The kid holds a can of drink and a long stick of licorice, and now I see there’s someone else with them.

She sees me.

It’s a youngish sort of woman, and when she finds my glare, she quickly kneels down and grabs hold of the kid. She gives him something, speaks, and heads off immediately in the opposite direction.

“It’s the next card,” I say to Audrey, and I take off. I run harder than I ever have before.

When I reach the boy and the dog I stop and see that I was right. The kid holds a playing card, but for now I don’t see what suit it is. I resume my pursuit of the young woman. She’s disappeared in the crowd but I run anyway because I’m sure. I feel
absolutely
certain that I’m chasing a person who at least knows who’s behind all this.

But she’s gone.

She’s disappeared, and I only stand on the sideline, without breath.

I could keep chasing, but there’s no point. She’s gone and I need to get back to the card. That boy could be ripping it to pieces for all I know.

Thankfully, when I make it back, he still holds it. Tightly. He looks like he’s not going to let it go without a fight.

As it turns out, I’m absolutely correct.

“No,” he says.

“Look.” The last thing I want is to muck around with this kid. “Just give me the card.”

“No!” The kid’s attempting to cry.

“Well, what did that lady say to you?”

“She said”—he wipes his eyes—“that the card belongs to the owner of this dog.”

“Well, that’s
me,
” I say.

“No—he’s mine. The dog’s mine!”

Give me Daryl, Keith, and another trouncing any day,
I think.
Anything’d be better than this kid.

“All right.” I adjust the game plan. “I’ll give you ten bucks for the dog and the card.”

The kid isn’t stupid. “Twenty.”

I’m displeased, to say the least, but I ask Audrey for a twenty and she gives it to me. “I’ll pay you later,” I tell her.

“No worries.”

I hand over the twenty and receive the Doorman and the card.

“Nice doing business with you.” The kid revels in his victory.

I feel like strangling him.

It’s not what I expect.

“Spades,” I say to Audrey.

She’s close enough for her hair to touch my shoulder. The Doorman stands on my foot.

“And you,” I accuse him. “
You
stay put next time.”

Okay, okay,
he responds, and soon he goes into a coughing fit.

Sure enough, a piece of licorice jumps from his mouth, and guilt crawls into his eyes.

“That’ll teach you.” I point at him viciously. He tries to ignore me.

“Is he all right?” Audrey asks as we walk away.

“Of course,” I answer. “He’ll outlive me, the gluttonous bastard.” But secretly I smile.